I Look Good In Burnt Orange Even Though My Favorite Color Is Blue.

Color, I was thinking something about my skin.

Many different colors are around even through the faces of my own kin.

A beautiful creamy caramel smoother than butter. It's the color of my perfect cup of coffee. It's the color opposite of my mother. The one other girls try to spray on. I've got that forever.

My skin tone is one of my favorite physical qualities yet my creamy fade is not what makes me unique, believe it or not it's a lot of folks who kind of look like me.

I am easy to pick out of the crowd and damn near any person could describe a somewhat accurate me. That is what makes me look unique, at least in the town I'm from my face alone is outstanding. A woman in the middle doesn't God himself hate me.

Just don't bother trying to spell out my name please. My mother got creative; it doesn't even match my nationality.

I decided though nonchalantly that I wouldn't allow my own name to bother me. If I made the other choice I'd constantly be in a state of unease I'm not sure why but could you disagree? I seem to dabble and started my own set of questioning, I came here to tell someone why I was unique.

Maybe its my favorite burnt orange fuzzy sweater that could use a patch because of the candle burned hole, or these dark curls that are thick and full.

Black and white creamy caramel feet.

Once again walking amongst men like I could make them all my sheep.

With all the colors in the world my confidence and unwavering faith in me is what makes me unique.

That is of course reason number one you see, I've got a number of quirks that set me apart from you and cause me to be a bit more serene. I live in a ball of light where both sides of the grass are green.

It is the difference in our perspectives that makes me unique. Or maybe it's how I don't fall under the pressure of this weird society.

Art is the only voice I ever knew. I wrote a thousand letters pouring out my own truth. Took time and burned them til nothing but ashes. Those were a form of tears for me. The clear color that clashes. I rarely choose actual tears. The paper becomes literal bursts of my fears. Orange flames that pinched with smoke and crackling just what I need. Not just through writing did art put me at ease; every color stroke of sunset orange those smooth transitions cleansed me.

A voice I know I share with people yet still we channel different energy. Guess that makes us all unique. Through the arts inside each person freedom is the quality. Old, new or undiscovered doesn't make it untrue. I look good in burnt orange even though my favorite color is blue.